


Forgotten Tears

by Tyone



Series: The Ghosts We Make for Ourselves [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, First Time, Fix-It, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Season/Series 03, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, kind of, post-tab
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 22:52:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7952371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyone/pseuds/Tyone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life isn’t about <i>breathing</i>, after all. Life is about those moments that catch the breath in your lungs until you think there can’t possibly be any more oxygen left on Earth.</p><p>Follow-up to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7641478">The Measured Lightness of Solitude</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgotten Tears

**Author's Note:**

> This is a follow-up to The Measured Lightness of Solitude. TMLoS can be read separately, but I'd advise not to read this part not having read the previous one. Please note this work is set in surroundings slightly different than those right after TAB. For the purpose of this fic, we assume after Mary shot Sherlock, John moved out and did not move back in with her, staying at 221B instead. For the sake of this story we also ignore the Moriarty business (for now).
> 
> The title was inspired by one of Damien Rice's [songs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p4ueUz-VKyU).
> 
> Big thank you to the wonderful [redpeacoat3](http://redpeacoat3.tumblr.com/) who betaread this fic <3

* * *

It’s like gazing at a distant star.

The light we see has travelled for millions of years to reach Earth just in the time of our lifespan. The star that produced it might not even exist anymore, but that doesn’t mean that the light we see isn’t real. It’s just as real as it was when it was emitted by that one particular star. It’s as real as anything else our eyes perceive and transmit in the form of nerve impulses (simply electrical current, really) to our brains. As real as anything else we see.

Sometimes that light seems even more real.

*

John goes up first. Sherlock follows half a minute after him, shutting the door to 221B behind him as silently as possible. John’s already by the window with his head bowed, and Sherlock knows what’s coming.

“ _Why_ didn’t you tell me?” John’s voice is hoarse.

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me what?!” John repeats almost shouting and turns around to face him. His eyes are burning with anger. “Maybe that you’re still using? Hm? Didn’t you think that information was worth sharing?”

Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs as he opens them.

“John, you are allowing emotion to cloud your judgement—”

“YOU COULD HAVE DIED!” John screams at the top of his voice. Sherlock takes a step back without realising it until his back hits the door. “Don’t you understand?!”

Sherlock dare not say a word but he can’t look away from John’s piercing gaze, and maybe that’s what makes John do the math. For a moment, it’s eerily quiet. They both hold their breath.

“You understood, didn’t you?” John says slowly, eventually. “You knew the dosage was potentially fatal. You—you _wanted_ it.”

“John—“ he starts even though he knows this battle was unwinnable from the start.

“No, hold on right there,” John says, getting closer to him. Sherlock can’t back away any farther. “And fucking _listen_ for once.” He swallows hard. “I’m happy to play the fool. For you.” Sherlock bows his head, closing his eyes. “I will run along behind you like some halfwit, making you look clever, if that’s what you need. But you have to promise me—” he grabs Sherlock’s arm quite forcibly— “this was the last time. You will never do this again, ever.”

Sherlock is sure John’s grip on his arm will leave bruises.

“Why—”

“Promise me, Sherlock.”

The grip on his arm tightens. John stands so close to him that their faces almost touch.

Sherlock opens his mouth.

And there’s a knock on the door.

*

They go on a case. All Sherlock can think of throughout the entire ride to the crime scene is the promise John wanted him to make.

He should have realised John would eventually find out, sooner or later. Out of the two of them, it’s not John who’s a fool. Of course, the fact that John now knows he planned to overdose will make a lot of things more complicated; John will probably be more careful around him, will try to always keep an eye on him but it doesn’t matter now.

All that matters is that John is back at Baker Street, even if only temporarily. The universal order has been restored.

Lestrade leads them inside an old dosshouse and Sherlock can almost physically _feel_ John wondering if maybe Sherlock has been there before. Neither of them speak of the matter, but it still weighs between them heavily.

When they enter the room and Sherlock sees the corpse, all other worries and regrets cease to matter. He’s hooked.

He spits out deductions, one after another, until he is physically exhausted. _There was a love affair, obviously, look at her wedding ring. They were both unhappy, clearly, but she cheated first and he found out, strangled her very precisely, yes he is a doctor I knew, and then threw the body off the stairs to make it look like an accident. Unhappy marriage led him to insensible decisions. Dull._ When he calms himself down and looks at John, he sees the admiration in his eyes that he’s longed to see for so long, and it’s almost like six years ago when they were still young and innocent and free and God, it used to be so easy.

Sherlock yearns to hear “amazing” from John’s mouth again, just once, but it never comes. Hope slowly vaporises out of him until he’s left completely drained. John doesn’t say anything and Sherlock realises bringing him there was a mistake and that realisation terrifies him.

They go back to Baker Street in complete silence. This time, Sherlock climbs up the stairs first and grabs the edge of the desk just to have anything to hold onto.

John walks in slowly. Sherlock lowers his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely.

“For what?” John asks immediately as if he was expecting Sherlock would say these words.

“It wasn’t a good idea; I shouldn’t have—” He swallows hard. “I shouldn’t have taken you there. I know you probably wanted nothing to do with it.”

John keeps quiet and Sherlock takes that as a confirmation. He does not dare to lift his head, to meet John’s eyes and show him his bleeding heart. He can’t.

John comes closer and if he only took one step farther, Sherlock could have touched him, could have dived into his lips or wrap his arms around his waist and never let him go, but John doesn’t step any closer so Sherlock stands still.

“Sherlock, it’s not— it’s not like that. I just need… I need more time. We both do.”

Time. Just another factor, next to past and space, that is driving them apart, now that _time_ which John desperately needs and which Sherlock can’t bear because it seems to cut his heart in half.

It’s like having his skin set ablaze. He burns himself up to give John light and the thing is: if given a choice, a chance to end this, he wouldn’t. In all pasts and presents and futures, he wouldn’t give up on John, even if not giving up means paying the highest price. He would pay it and burn his heart down over and over and over and over again for John.

John looks at him shortly and then leaves to his bedroom. Sherlock doesn’t say anything.

_Over and over and over and over again. For John._

*

Of course he thinks about it sometimes. He _planned_ to do it, after all.

He thinks about Tantalus. Sentenced by the Gods to endless hunger while surrounded by fruit and eternal thirst while knee deep in water. Every time Tantalus almost reached the fruit, it drifted a centimetre away from his hand, and every time he bent down to take a sip of water, the riptide blew it away from him.

Sherlock always thought about how paradoxically easy it would be for Tantalus to just bite off his tongue, to bleed out and die. He could do the same. He could overdose, shoot himself, drown, there are thousands of ways. He doesn’t know why he’s behaving so irrationally, why he continues to suffer when the only logical solution is to just let it end.

Maybe Tantalus’s greatest punishment wasn’t eternal starvation, after all. Maybe it was the fact that despite the painful self-realisation, he couldn’t end his misery.

*

Sherlock doesn’t know when or how, but he and John manage to fall back into their safe routine. John makes breakfasts and they spend the evenings together watching TV and it feels so wonderfully, devastatingly natural. Sherlock knows he shouldn’t get his hopes up but it’s just too difficult not to fall when John pushes him.

Sometimes their knees brush or their fingers touch when John passes him his cup of tea. These little moments are all the physical contact Sherlock has and it’s driving him insane. He can’t control the shiver that goes down his body when their eyes meet or how his hands tremble slightly every time John mentions something related to his marriage. He’s got no inkling of what’s happening to him--all he knows is that this can’t continue any longer or he’ll completely lose his mind.

Sherlock comments on the ignorance of the writers of the detective show they’ve been watching and when John smiles at him lightly, Sherlock hates the goosebumps that appear on his skin immediately after.

*

 _Koi no yokan_. It’s a Japanese expression. It is used to describe the feeling you get when you meet someone and know you are destined to fall in love.

There is no literal translation in English. Sherlock can’t think of one word to describe it, at least.

*

Because, how often could you possibly meet the right person? If you meet someone who seems perfect and then split from them, then from the logical point of view, they just weren’t perfect for you.

There can’t be multiple chances and there are no coincidences. _The universe isn’t so lazy_ , after all.

It only happens once. Only once.

*

John goes out to check on pregnant Mary from time to time. He doesn’t tell Sherlock but of course Sherlock deduces it and the first time he does it, it feels like having the wind knocked out of him.

“How is she?” Sherlock asks one time, sitting in the dark, after John closes the door behind him.

He’s hateful.

John doesn’t turn the light on as he passes through the living room and to the stairs.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sometimes Sherlock wishes he really had died on that rooftop.

*

Not all his dreams are of John. Sometimes he sees Magnussen in them, well-alive-and-still-watching-him Magnussen with a huge hole in his forehead where the bullet went through. He never says anything but his gaze never leaves Sherlock, slicing his skin inch by inch until all Sherlock can do is beg to wake up.

His eyes are red and swollen from sleepless nights. He starts losing his hair. It clogs the drain of the shower and he can’t make it stop. His hands tremble treacherously as he collects the clumps.

He tries to tell himself that he has been reprieved, after all. He has put a death sentence on himself and were it not for his brother, he would have paid for his sins. Nothing seems to work. The drain is still black with hair after he showers.

He’s not got long.

*

With hindsight, Sherlock knows he should have been more careful. But he hasn’t slept for three days and threw up yesterday’s dinner. Putting on his dressing gown after shower is honestly the last thing he could possibly worry about.

He leaves with a towel wrapped around his waist. His hair is dripping, water trickles down his face.

He passes next to John sitting in his chair and as soon as he does, he hears John put away his newspaper. _Not a good sign_ , goes through Sherlock’s brain, but John speaks before he’s able to deduce more.

“Sherlock,” he starts slowly.

Sherlock stops automatically. He hates the control John has over him. One word, that’s all it takes.

“Who’s done this to you?”

Sherlock shuts his eyes, swallowing hard. Of course. John has seen him naked, but it was dark and heavy with the burden of that moment, and he couldn’t have possibly had a good look, but now in the daylight it’s painfully visible.

His scarred back, that’s what John’s asking about.

Sherlock doesn’t move, but doesn’t turn around to face John either.

“These,” Sherlock says flatly, “are just the side effects of my job. Utterly irrelevant.”

“Irrelevant?!” He hears that John’s got up from his chair. Panic starts flooding his mind and he can’t think of a reason good enough to leave and hide in his bedroom so he just stands in the corridor dumbfounded.

“Your back looks like it’s been whipped repeatedly.” John steps closer to him. Sherlock feels sudden dizziness and has to lean on the wall slightly. “I want to know who did this. When did it happen?” Sherlock keeps quiet. “Answer me, dammit!”

Sherlock turns around to face him so abruptly he goes temporarily blind. He blinks a few times and shakes his head.

“Oh, _God_ , how would we fill the time if you didn’t ask all those stupid, extraneous—” His voice is suddenly stuck in his throat and he can’t catch a breath. He tries holding onto the wall but it doesn’t support his weight anymore and he slides down to the floor. John’s next to him in a second.

He can hear John repeat his name louder and louder and then his vision goes blank and there’s nothing.

*

He wakes up in a bed that’s certainly not his, John’s or Mycroft’s; he opens his eyes and sees the familiar white walls and floors. St. Mary’s Hospital. Sherlock spits at the irony.

“Cardiac arrest,” he hears John’s voice. He looks around and notices him getting up from a chair placed next to the window.

Sherlock tries to swallow, but his mouth goes completely dry.

“You went into cardiac arrest, again. It was hypoglycaemia caused by malnutrition and lack of—“ he cuts off, running his hand over his face. “Why did you try to hide from me that you were in such a bad state, Sherlock? I’m a doctor, I could have helped—“

“Oh for god’s sake, John, please,” Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes. “Please save your pity for your _actual_ patients. I am fine, you needn’t have worried. Just bring me my laptop and let me work.”

“No, Sherlock,” John steps closer to his bed. “Everyone always _lets you_ do whatever you want and that’s how you got in this state. You’re going to stay in your bed, eat the fucking soup, drink tea and rest. Your heart might not make it through third cardiac arrest.”

“And wouldn’t that be convenient,” Sherlock murmurs to himself.

“What did you say?”

Sherlock shuts his eyes and pretends he fell asleep. He foolishly anticipates John will brush his hand with his finger or pull a stranded lock from his forehead so he can feel the warmth of John’s body on his skin, all over him, and he waits and waits and waits, but it’s still unbearably cold and lonely when he actually dozes off.

*

He’s discharged from hospital two weeks later. John insists on taking his bag and offers his arm so Sherlock can hold onto something, and Sherlock is too tired to argue, so he just takes whatever John offers and doesn’t think about any possible repercussions it’ll have on him.

Mrs. Hudson greets him with a hug and it’s clear she’s worried and she’s been crying, for four nights at least, probably not in a row but is that even relevant? Sherlock takes a deeper breath when her arms embrace him and she tries shoving them into the kitchen for some tea and “herbal soothers” for Sherlock, but John politely explains that Sherlock should probably rest now and she lets them go upstairs.

John tells him to lie down on the sofa and once again, Sherlock does what he’s told because he is too drained to be stubborn and he is too drained to argue and he will do it John’s way now, always John’s way. John brings him dinner and medication and Sherlock tries to sit up, but the movement must be too abrupt because the scar on his chest starts burning fiercely and he’s suddenly out of breath. John drops the plate and the mug on the coffee table and rushes to him, and holds his wrist and presses a hand to his forehead. When Sherlock finally catches his breath back again, John pushes him gently onto his back and crouches next to the sofa, still not letting go of his wrist.

Neither of them say anything. Sherlock screws his cowardice and moves his hand so that John’s holding his palm now. He waits for John’s move, lying still, and when finally, John brushes his fingers, Sherlock lets out a long breath.

“John,” he whispers and tries to open his eyes but God, he has never been more tired.

“Shh,” John says softly. “Rest.” John caresses his hand slowly. “My dear.”

*

When he wakes up, it’s completely dark inside. He feels someone’s weight next to his body and notices John has fallen asleep sitting on the floor, head resting on his folded arms on the sofa.

He wishes he could just lift John onto the sofa and lie down by his side, wrap his arms and legs around him and just breathe, breathe in his scent and his devotion until his lungs aren’t ruined anymore and his eyes aren’t dried out of forgotten tears, until he stops feeling so fucking _lonely_ all the time and there’s no self-loath and hatred and regret in him and it’s all—

But in this universe, it’s not possible. The world keeps swirling and the stars will never let them fall into the same orbit.

Sherlock tries to get up without disturbing John’s sleep and goes to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

*

John makes him breakfasts, makes sure he takes his medication three times a day, stays hydrated and is well rested. All his days merge into one dull existence. He takes clients, but John is very strict when it comes to chasing criminals around London and that’s what Sherlock desperately needs now.

John leaves to get some groceries and Mycroft takes that precise moment to pay him a visit. Sherlock doesn’t even have to look at him to know what it’s all about.

“Mary,” Sherlock says without preamble as his brother enters the living room. “Something about Mary, isn’t it?” He sits up slowly, looking at Mycroft.

Mycroft shoots him a short look and sits down in Sherlock’s chair.

“Americans want her back. Extradition is imminent and, I’m afraid, unstoppable,” Mycroft says without an ounce of sympathy.

Sherlock takes a moment to chew on that information. No Mary, from now on. But more importantly, no baby. John’s baby.

God, John.

“Does John know?” he asks bluntly.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

“I can inform him, of course. But I thought that probably, you’ll want to do it on your own terms. And perhaps you could finally shed some light on the pregnancy matter.”

“What pregnancy matter?”

Mycroft gauges him with his eyes and then a smile slowly twists his lips.

“Oh.” Mycroft’s smile broadens. “You don’t know, do you?”

“What _exactly_ do you mean?” Sherlock asks irritably.

Mycroft is quiet for a while.

“You’re in deep, Sherlock.” Mycroft shakes his head, finally speaking. “Way too deep. Deeper than you’ve ever intended to be.”

“Your point being?” Sherlock snaps. “Just to traditionally humiliate me or is there some sort of hidden motive I’m not seeing?”

“What you’re _not seeing_ is that there never was any pregnancy at all.” Sherlock’s heart skips a few bits and then, he reckons, completely shuts down. Realisation knocks the wind out of him; it’s been already more than 9 months. She should have given birth around the beginning of January, today was 28th. “She fooled you just like she intended to. She’s not pregnant, never has been.”

Sherlock tries to compose himself enough to say something, anything at all, but he can’t. All of the words are stuck in his throat, on his tongue, his mouth, but he can’t say them out loud. Mycroft’s smile faded somewhen but he can’t pinpoint when and now his brother is looking at him with clear worry in his eyes. Sherlock can’t bring himself to care.

All he can care about now is how John will take this, all of this.

“I shall be going. I’ll show myself out, don’t get up.” And then Mycroft’s gone.

Sherlock closes his eyes and releases a broken breath.

*

It’s Mycroft who tells John, in the end. Sherlock tried putting a speech up in his mind, something he could tell John to somehow make it all right, but he just couldn’t. Nothing he could say will make this right.

The sun is starting to set, painting the sky in bright orange and pink, when he hears John’s slow, measured footsteps on the stairs. He tries to brace himself for whatever is coming.

John appears on the doorstep and, God, he looks so _defeated_. He doesn’t even look at Sherlock and goes straight to the kitchen to put the kettle on. A few seconds later Sherlock hears the sound of glass shattering.

“FUCK!” John shouts and storms out of the kitchen. Sherlock flinches in his chair. “You knew, didn’t you?” Sherlock bows his head. “’Course you knew, you’re Sherlock bloody Holmes, you _must have_ known.”

“John…”

“You just didn’t find it important enough to tell me, huh? Because I _never_ fucking deserve to know, no. I didn’t deserve to know you were still alive after that faked suicide and I didn’t deserve to know my fucking wife is a trained assassin and now I don’t deserve to know my baby is—“ John breaks down and covers his eyes with his hand.

When he composes himself after a moment and lifts his eyes to meet Sherlock’s for the first time, Sherlock sees tears in them.

“I didn’t know the pregnancy was fake,” Sherlock says slowly and his voice is husky and broken, but he doesn’t care. “I—I’m sorry, John.” He swallows and looks up at him. “I was just trying to protect you.”

His last revelation seems to break something in John. Before he realizes what’s happening, John is right next to his chair, leaning forward and then straddling him. His lips meet Sherlock’s and he’s kissing him so fiercely Sherlock is sure he’ll draw blood, but, God, he can’t think about it now. Now it’s _John_ , John’s weight on him, his tongue in him, his hands cupping his face and it’s perfect, it’s like it always should be. John leans back and they’re both panting for breath, their eyes never leaving each other.

“God, I want you,” John breathes, and it is Sherlock’s time to dive into his lips as they tumble to the ground and onto the carpet. Sherlock moves on top of him and tries to kiss his lips again but he keeps missing so he just kisses his face, his nose, his jaw, anything he can reach. John’s popped up on his elbows and Sherlock straightens up, still straddling his hips, and when their eyes finally meet, Sherlock cups John’s face in his hands and whispers:

“Then take me. Take all of me. I’m yours, John. Always yours.”

John crushes their lips together and Sherlock feels his want and need course through his touch, pouring into his bloodstream, making him come alive, clearing all his thoughts. Sherlock’s hips thrust involuntarily because he needs that friction and it’s not enough, he needs John closer. John nibbles Sherlock’s ear lightly.

“No, we’re going to do this right.”

John moves his hands down Sherlock’s back, supporting Sherlock’s weight as he gets up with a small groan. Sherlock wraps his legs around John’s waist, careful with his head as John carries him to his—their—bedroom. They stumble onto the bed, with John still on top of him. John starts unbuttoning his shirt, kissing his lips softly, gently, as if they had all the time in the universe. Sherlock’s breath is lost in his chest, his heartbeat is in his throat, his thoughts spilling onto the floor, escaping in just one word: _John_. John on top of him, John’s lips on his skin, John unbuttoning his shirt, not just desiring him, _wanting_ him.

John takes off Sherlock’s shirt and starts pressing open-mouthed kisses on his chest, stopping briefly on the scar. Sherlock shudders involuntarily and John breathes a warm, “it’s okay, love” over his skin. Sherlock closes his eyes and entangles his fingers in John’s hair, pressing lightly and caressing his scalp as John goes lower, counting his ribs with his fingers and reaching his navel.

“You’re so thin,” John breathes over his skin, the warm, shuddered air making goosebumps appear.

Sherlock reaches for his hand and their fingers intertwine immediately, and John looks up at him.

“I want you,” Sherlock whimpers, his mouth completely dry. John leans over and meets his lips again and the kiss is soft, but passionate. When they break apart, Sherlock looks into John’s eyes again. “Tell me you want me, John.”

“I’ve never wanted anyone else,” John whispers into his ear. “I’ve never dreamt of anyone else. You’re my everything, Sherlock.”

Sherlock lets out a broken gasp and grips John’s face in both his hands, crushing their mouths together. John lets him dominate the kiss, to take whatever reassurance Sherlock needed from it. When they move apart, there’s no more subtlety in Sherlock’s gaze — now it’s filled solely with desire.

“Take me,” Sherlock pants into John’s ear, moving his hips so John can feel his erection. He feels the unmistakable bulge in John’s trousers, too. “Take me, John. Fuck me. I want you inside me.”

“Christ,” John breathes and kisses him again. He unbuckles Sherlock’s belt and takes his trousers off, staring at the bulge in Sherlock’s pants before he takes them off.

John takes the tip of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, just feeling its weight on his tongue, tasting it. Sherlock closes his eyes and digs his fingernails into bed sheets to prevent himself from pulling John’s head down on himself.

John goes tantalisingly, torturously slow, deep-throating him, then coming back to just licking the tip. Sherlock feels like a volcano that’s just about to erupt, feels it building up in him from his toes to the top of his head. He forces his eyes open and sees John looking up right at him, his cock still in his mouth, and that sends him to the edge.

“John, I’m—I’m gonna—“

John groans around his cock and that sound pushes him down and he’s falling, his muscles tight, eyes closed. He feels as if the time has stopped suddenly, there can’t possibly be anything more than this sensation, relaxing his body, soothing his nerves.

He feels John’s lips on his and opens his mouth, allowing their tongues to touch, to feel his own taste on his tongue. He wraps his arm around John’s naked body, pulling him closer, surging his hips to meet John’s.

“You really want this, don’t you?” John pants in his ear and yes, he’s never wanted anything more, he’s never wanted anyone at all, anyone but John. He doesn’t know if he’s saying this out loud; from how John’s expression changes, he guesses he is. “Lube?” John asks and then goes on to kiss his jaw and neck.

“Drawer,” Sherlock breathes, closing his eyes.

John pushes a slicked finger gently into his entrance, and Sherlock forces himself to relax, to let John in farther. Soon it’s two fingers, and then three, and their eyes are never leaving each other and Sherlock wants to tell him to just do it because he simply cannot wait any longer, but John is precise and thorough and Sherlock is sure he won’t do anything until he knows Sherlock is ready. Finally, John pulls his fingers out and Sherlock hears the condom package being ripped open and more lube squeezed out. He opens his eyes when he feels John’s cock press at his entrance.

“Alright?” John whispers and Sherlock simply pulls him down for a soft kiss, feeling John position himself between his legs.

John doesn’t stop kissing him as he pushes inside, slow now, careful with his movements. He leans back slightly, studying Sherlock’s face as he goes deeper.

“Is that alright?” John asks quietly.

“And how should I know? I’ve never done this before.”

Sherlock can pinpoint the moment when possessiveness creeps into John’s gaze as he realises what has just been said. John’s eyes run over his face and then he kisses him again, feverish and passionate, marking him, claiming him. Sherlock melts into the mattress as John sets a steadier, faster pace, still kissing his lips and neck. Sherlock’s cock is hard again, trapped and leaking between their bodies. John’s thrusting into him mercilessly, drips of sweat on his forehead, but it’s not pardon Sherlock is interested in.

It’s heavy and it’s difficult and it’s raw and honest, and it’s perfect, it’s abidingly perfect.

John grabs his cock and gives it a few quick thrusts and Sherlock feels his body tensing again, waves of pleasure making him dizzy, raising all the hairs on his body, but he does not dare to look away from John’s eyes and they’re locked in this moment, between free fall and weightlessness.

John stills and comes inside him, burying his head in the space between Sherlock’s arm and neck, breathing heavily. His body goes limp, a sweet, sweet weight on his chest. Sherlock closes his eyes, breathing in the scent of their bodies that still fills the air.

John rolls over, throws the used condom away and then lies back by his side. He smiles and Sherlock can’t help but do the same for him. He can’t possibly think of anything to say that wouldn’t stain this fragile, papier-mâché situation with unnecessary sentiments; but John doesn’t seem to mind the silence. He pops up on one elbow and just looks down on his face, caressing his arm with his thumb gently. His eyes are soft, his expression relaxed, all the tension gone from his body; it’s so easy to imagine him say these words. The dim light spills through the half-closed door from the living room and all Sherlock can hear is his own heartbeat and their mixed breathing. It’s too easy to imagine John saying that.

John’s hand moves on to his chest.

“Could it always be like that?” John says, his voice husky and barely above whisper.

Sherlock closes his eyes and lets out a short sigh.

“I don’t know. Could it?” Sherlock says, barely a reply, not looking at John.

“Would you want it to be like that?”

God, would he. _I’ve never wanted anything else_ , he thinks. _I’ve never even known what want was before you._

John looks at him expectantly and Sherlock can’t bring himself to lie anymore, so he just embeds his thoughts into words.

“Of course I would, John,” he chokes. “I’ve never wanted anything or anyone else.”

John just looks at him for a moment with disbelief in his eyes, then shakes his head to clear it. He leans down and presses their mouths together.

“Why haven’t you ever said anything, you idiot?” he breathes between kisses.

“Would it have made a difference?” Sherlock asks, looking into his eyes. “Tell me, John. Would me blatantly stating the obvious fact change a single thing?”

John sits up and looks at him, furrowing his brows.

“Of course it would. _Of course_ it would. I told you: one word. That’s all I would’ve needed. But you never said anything. You never protested when I was making the biggest fucking mistake in my life. How could I have known?”

“How could you _not_ know?” Sherlock smiles sadly and shoots him an agonised gaze.

“You kept turning me down, Sherlock. You kept me in the dark after the wedding, you began working on your own. It was as if you were deliberately pushing me away.”

Sherlock shakes his head, biting on his lower lip as he raises his eyes to meet John’s.

“I thought I was losing you. I thought you found your path where I was redundant and I wouldn’t dare— I wouldn’t ever— I thought you were happy.” To his utter terror, his eyes well up, but he can’t stop the words spilling out of his mouth. ”I would never dare to do anything to stop you from being happy. Even if it meant backing away, letting you go. I would. I have. I—“ He shuts his eyes, feeling the tears sting under the lids.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John says, his voice breaking. He cups Sherlock’s face in his hands, running his thumb over the trail one single tear left on his cheek. He hesitates for a moment, still penetrating Sherlock’s gaze with his, and then simply says:

“I love you. I love you, Sherlock, I love you so much.”

Another tear streams down Sherlock’s face as he crushes their lips together. When they break apart to catch a breath, Sherlock touches their foreheads, his hands on John’s neck.

“I love you,” he whispers. “There’s only you. No one else. Only you.”

John pulls him into his arms and Sherlock rests his head on John’s chest, closing his eyes and breathing in his scent. He can actually feel John’s heartbeat.

_Only you._

*

It feels like the midday sun burning your skin. Or like lying down on the grass in the middle of nowhere, not a single street lamp in sight, and watching the night star-studded sky. It’s like the perfect alignment of all the planets. Like total eclipse, once in a lifetime. Inevitable and unforgettable, unchangeable. Incomparable to anything else.

_The moon and the stars are nothing without you._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. There will most probably be another follow-up because, as you may have noticed, some matters are still unresolved. But for now, thank you for your time!


End file.
